Seeking Repentence in the Truth
by Enchantment of Rose
Summary: MultiGenre Paper for 12 Angry Men. Benjamin Carson's murderer is still yet to be found. But will the man who reasoned for another man's life be the murderer himself? One shot. R&R please!


**(A/N) I wrote this as a multi-genre paper for school. I guess it qualifies as a fanfiction.**

**Disclaimers: I do not own the monologues or the Robert Frost poem. I do own all the names.  
**

_Repent- _to feel such sorrow for sin or fault as to be disposed to change one's life for the better; be penitent.

_Sam Carson, you are being arrested for the murder of Benjamin Carson. __You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you._

"Repent and turn from all your transgressions, lest iniquity be your ruin."

-Ezekiel 18:30 ESV

The dusty floors whined as Sam Carson lumbered sleepily up the stairs, but just a he fumbled in his coat pocket for the keys he heard a dull thump from below. He whisked around to see Mr. Wilkinson at the bottom in his ragged grey robe. His wrinkled features were rigid and cold just as they were at court earlier that morning.

"You might have gotten off the hook," Mr. Wilkinson whistled through the gap in his teeth, "I knows what I saws, and I knows what I hears! You can't fool me!" He turned away but before he started to limp to his apartment, he glanced over his shoulder and grunted, "And I'll be keepin' me eyes on you." And with that he shuffled away.

Sam shrugged the futile comment away, and crammed the keys into the lock and veered open the splintered door. Not even glancing at his bare apartment, he hung up his coat on the hook on the wall and meandered over to the kitchen and opened up the rusty refrigerator to pull out a soda pop and left over pot roast. He crossed the hall to the living room and turned on the small T.V.

_This isn't right _Sam thought. _Everything is not normal. My father just died and I am sitting here watching "Leave It To Beaver" like nothing ever happened. _After pondering for a moment, Sam decided to ignore the simple thinking. So he turned off the television and put away his dinner plates. He was tired and had a long day, so he had better at least get some rest. He went into the room that was his father's to get a blanket. Sam paused dead still. There was still a bloodstain on the carpet where Benjamin Carson gasped his last breaths.

Just seeing this made Sam crumple right in the middle of the room and sob emotionally. He ran his fingers through his short dark hair. _I thought he deserved this. He didn't though. He might have beaten me, but I don't blame him for it. I would have beat me too if I had a kid like me. I should have been more disciplined; I should have obeyed him. But he's gone. I can't change that. _

"The past lies like a nightmare upon the present"

-Karl Marx

Abruptly Sam stopped his weeping, and wiped the boiled tears from his puffy eyes. He raced to his room, plowed through the mess of clothes on the floor. Sam kneeled at his bedside and craned his neck to look under his bed. Under the bed was one lone object. A worn out shoe box with a seemingly undisturbed blanket of dust engulfing it. He gingerly hauled the box out and opened the lid. Inside was his collection; of knives that is. If his father had found them before, he would have thrown them away.

There were three knives all together. The first one, his favorite, was a butterfly knife lined with a roan stained oak. The blade was sharp and the knife still eased out sleekly out of its casing. The other two were switchblades. One had was plain and without an extrinsic design. The third knife, though, had thin delicately scrawled swirls and patterns on it and was perhaps the most beautiful out if the three.

Sam picked them up and brought them to the alley window. With the dumpster straight below, he knew that the old lady next door never closed the lid. Not hesitating, Sam hoisted the box above the dumpster and turned it over and the knifes fell like feathers into the trash.

Finally, he had gotten rid of the thinks that held him back. He worshipped them and that is what kept him from his father. He was clean and was at peace, ready to start again.

"Repent and turn away from your idols, and turn away your faces from all your abominations."

-Ezekiel 14:6 ESV

_The Road Not Taken_

By Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

**Three**: Listen. What's the matter with you? You're the guy. You made all the arguments. You can't turn know. A guilty man's going to be walking the street. A murderer! He's going to die! Stay with me!

**Jury Duty**

Foreman- Harold Georges

Juror #2- Jordan Patronelli

Juror #3- Jonathon Greeves

Juror #4- Earl Pawnson

Juror #5- Frances Baker

Juror #6- Damian Pleman

Juror #7- Joshua Phillips

Juror #8- Terrance Watson

Juror #9- Abram Cavendish

Juror #10- Calvin Bennet

Juror #11- Jimmy Ferns

Juror #12- Tex Manson

Dear Mr. Owen Callaghan,

As my partner in this dealership, I must relate to you the outcome of the trial. I may be as fool hardy as to kill a man, but I would not see another man get put away in prison for what I did. I doubt, though, that the police will pick up my trail. It unwise for Benjamin Carson to make such an offer; to hire us to _consult_ his son about his cocaine usage. He promised us money he couldn't cough up in the end. Who does Ben think we are to end sales for one of our best customer? Well it's all over. I do feel bad for the kid. I remember when my ol' man passed over. Still, he won't suspect either. And we won't lose any business. I'll meet you at the Gladstone Hotel on August the 12th.

Regards,

Terrance Watson

"Truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long."

-William Shakespeare

Sam drew himself from the window, his hands trembling with relief. He set the empty cardboard box on the small yellow kitchen table. Step after step, small with much delicacy. On the way to recovery. Sam solemnly traveled back to his bedroom. Something caught his green eyes to the foot of his bed. It was the lid to the shoebox. There was something on it. Something he had not noticed; something not his. There, imprinted on the dusty swathe was a hand mark. He had not touched that box since he had left for reform school, and this print was fresh, as if made just a few days ago.

His mind started whirling. The knife. The one used to kill his father. It was his! True he had bought it for himself, but now it's gone. He had forgotten about it. Sam staggered from the dizzying revelation. Someone had used his knife. But who? Who would want to kill his father? Sam and Benjamin were as disconnected from each other as any one son and father could be. Then an image appeared to him. A memory of the trial. A man with piercing dark eyes; he looked straight at Sam when they announced the verdict. Sam swore he knew the face. It was Terrance Watson! The man who used to sell Sam his drugs. Why would he be on jury duty? A feeling came over Sam, one he could not describe, but it seemed something was telling him that Terrance Watson murdered his father.

Sam rushed down the stairs and swooped out the door. It was dark out and the crisp city air filled his pumping lungs as he raced to the pay phone two blocks down. He fumbled through his pocket and found a dime and a tiny crumpled piece of paper. Sam shoved the dime into the coin hole. Then he dialed the number from the paper.

"Hello, Philadelphia Police Department," a woman asked on the other side, "How may I be of service?"

"Yeah," Sam panted, "May I speak to Detective Charles?"

"Sure, I'll connect you right away."

"Detective Charles speaking," a strong male voice said.

"Detective, this is Sam Carson." With much urgency he continued with his message. "I think I know who killed my father. And I have fingerprints to prove it."


End file.
